


Empty Studio/Empty Glass

by cherubim_curls



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Its just really sad and roger is concerned for pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherubim_curls/pseuds/cherubim_curls
Summary: Pete had seemed off when recording earlier that day. It hadn't been a good day.Roger decides to check up on his friend only to find him in a state with no easy fix.
Relationships: Interpret it as you'd like, Roger Daltrey & Pete Townshend
Kudos: 7





	Empty Studio/Empty Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This is fairly detailed so be wary if alcohol abuse gets you antsy!! I wrote Pete and Roger's dynamic as friendship but you may read/interpret it as you'd like. I'm still pretty new to writing the Who so accuracy may not be perfect but this was my first crack at it- hope you all enjoy!

The setting sun draped an orange glow into the barely cracked blinds of the studio lobby, a few steps from the room in which music was recorded earlier in the day. The rhythm section had retired for the day hours past, waving their goodbyes before reaching for their coats at the door. The last to leave was the exhaustion ridden Roger, making sure he lay a steady pat to Pete’s back before wishing him a farewell for the day. 

The cozy but barren-feeling studio inhabited a single person, the raven haired, tousled guitarist of the group. Pete rested in the centre of the room, an electric in his lap as his hands gripping the headphones comforting his ears. His fingers traced the grooves of the headset, his eyes shut as the sound pooling from it became musty by the second. His lips remained agape as he craved yet another sip of the poison he desired, reaching a hand towards the top of the nearest amplifier to grip at a glass bottle before hastily bringing the drink to his lips for a thirsty swig. 

He pulled the glass from his mouth, swallowing before letting out a heavy breath ridden with the stench of alcohol; a scent too familiar and dare he think, welcome. He dropped the bottle to the ground, sinking back into his seat as the song continued to send aches through his head. Pete felt numb. He stared at the ceiling whilst a stray hand reached to slide his fingers over the thin metal of a newly strung guitar cradled in his lap. The music was much too loud. He was much too drunk to care. 

The introspective musician drowned out all external noise as the recording tormented his ears, unable to hear the door of the studio open. With a gentle creak, Roger peeked into the room, spotting an obviously disheveled man staring up at the ceiling with eyes filled with pooling exhaustion. 

“Pete?”

Silence. His state was worrying the singer as his eyes locked onto the emptied bottle by his feet, causing a grimace to briefly float upon his crooked lips. Without bothering to rid himself of his shoes or coat, he bounded towards his friend with his hands in fists and worry hidden behind his blue eyes. Upon leaving earlier, a strange feeling lingered in his mind that Pete was off today. More than usual. 'Thank goodness I stopped by again.' 

“Pete-“

A gasp. Wide, empty eyes stared back at the approaching man, a quickened tempo of his heartbeat thumping through the guitarist’s ears faster than that of the song numbing the previously empty room. The clashing beats proved to be too frustrating for the seated man, his hands reached up to claw away at his headphones before aggressively letting them fall to the ground beside the empty bottle. His eyes flickered across Roger’s face, never resting a moment too long on his features as countless exacerbated emotions pumped through his veins teeming with self-medicated depressant. 

Roger stood in front of Pete, wincing as he met his bandmate’s nervous eyes while a wave of pity ran through him. A sudden sense replaced it as his attention flitted towards the source of Pete’s state, crouching to hastily pick up the bottle. Wordless communication forced the guitarist’s eyes to widen towards the man looming over him, a shudder forcing itself through his spine as his attention glued to the bottle gripped in his friend’s hand. Something in him silently prayed for shattered glass to coat his skin and force him to feel. 

A fire engulfed the blondes eyes, lips twitched as rage slowly filled his mind to the brim. This cursed substance was stealing his friend from him. And all he could do was sing the words that crooned from his aching mind on pen to paper. The strangling grip on the bottle tightened further as Roger tore his gaze away from the frightened man before loosening the tension of his fingers, placing the bottle onto the ground beside him. An inhale. An exhale. Now is not the time. 

Silence. The static passing through the air only rung more deliberately in the aching ears of the artist. His brows turned upwards, wrinkles of desperation tainting his forehead as he let out a series of trembling, strangled breaths. Shudders controlled his thin frame before he wrapped hesitant hands around himself, allowing his guitar to slip onto the ground without paying any mind. 

Eyes shut, teeth bared through trembling lips, dry tears racked his body as he turned in on himself in his seat. Not even the satisfaction of tears could bring him any sensation. A lack thereof would have to do. Roger froze in his place, a flare set off in his chest as he stood paralyzed by the sight before him. Worried fingers reached towards the direction of the helpless man before the singer crouched down to his level. Searching for his eyes that forced themselves closed through his raw attempt at crying, Roger delicately moved a strand of hair from Pete’s face. No reaction. 

On pure impulse he leaned in for a hug. Arms wrapped around the cowering musician as Roger nuzzled comfortingly into Pete’s neck, grounding him with a steady hold. The songwriter reeked the musty scent of brandy and fresh winter air. Pete’s eyes flew open staring at nothing for a moment as he took in what he was feeling. Warmth surrounded him. Soft curls rested upon his face like a scarf. The arms of a fond friend brought him down from his high and resurrected him up from the low. Not entirely healing but enough to remind him that he was miraculously alive. 

“Pete,” Roger spoke in a whisper as though not to startle him, “I’m here for you. Don’t do this to yourself, I can try to help,” his voice was the only sound bouncing off the walls other than the desperate heaves of a man in pain. 

Pete allowed for his eyes to flutter closed as he focused on all he was feeling. The shaking of his chest as he struggled to regulate his exhales. Roger’s comfortingly warm breath on his shoulder. 

A few stray tears pooling in his eyes. 

Not enough to call it crying, but enough to let out a sigh. He loosened the stiffness in his muscles for a moment, shakily bringing his arms out to reach around Roger’s back holding him in a firm embrace. Almost instantly the tension in their shoulders loosened as Pete held his friend close. 

“I’ll try” Pete’s voice was gravely and unused but hopeful, “thank you.”


End file.
